12/04/2024
A few weeks ago, I walked by my childhood home. It reminded me of a lecture I gave a few years ago titled "Home and the Poetics of Space" a few years ago.
“When I say “home” I still think of my childhood home. I grew up in Jerusalem, in an apartment on the second floor of a small building. I lived in this home with my parents, my nine sisters and brothers, our dog, an outside cat; my grandmother moved in with us later on. Despite the tight quarters, my mother insisted that each child needed a private space, so she divided the high-ceilinged space into many lofts and tiny rooms.
We never really had a living room, the center of activity was the large, sun filled, kitchen. A platter of nuts and dried fruit was always waiting for the stream of friends and strangers that passed through. While the kitchen was the social heart of our home, my father’s library was its intellectual, almost sacred, counterpart. In it were over 10,000 books including some ancient manuscripts. We knew not to interrupt my father's studies except to tell him that dinner was ready, yet we were always welcome to enter if we had a question about our homework of when we wanted to discuss a personal problem.
But “home” was not limited our apartment. Home included the eclectic group of neighbors, a collage of the Israeli society in the seventies, that lived in the building. On the ground floor, and with exclusive use of the garden, lived Rosa. She was a short, elderly woman from Istanbul with a bright gold tooth and a husband who owned a cluttered shoe shop downtown. His children from a previous marriage constantly fought with her and she in turn, yelled at us for making noise.
Next to Rosa lived a family that had recently immigrated to Israel from Uzbekistan and opened their dental practice in the front room of their apartment.
One could enter the Makolet - a bodega style grocery store - directly from the street, and we got milk and bread every morning. Berger and Genzel, the owners, lived down the block on “HaPortzim” the one-way street on which Netanyahu’s parents lived. We whispered about the numbers tattooed on their arm, people said they met in the concentration camp..."
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